


the aching in my heart

by sevdrag (seventhe)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley wakes up, Crowley's Ansaphone, Fluff, Gen, Good Omens: Lockdown, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Minor Character Death, Pandemics, Pestilence, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Some angst, discussion of the COVID situation, lockdown - Freeform, wake the snake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25009903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag
Summary: Crowley wakes up to seventeen voice messages on his old antique ansaphone.  Somehow, he knows who most of them are from.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 257
Collections: AwakeTheSnake, Shinbi34's Recommendations





	the aching in my heart

**Author's Note:**

> has this been done before? IM SURE! is it unique? PROBABLY NOT! did i write it anyway because i had to get my feelings out? YOU BETCHA! am i jumping on this bandwagon? CATCH THESE HANDS IM NOT GETTING OFF

He doesn’t actually sleep the _entire_ time. Crowley’s long naps are prone to intermediate fits of dozing, some good rolling around in the soft bamboo-silk sheets of his decadent bed, a bit of dreaming here and there. Demons rarely let themselves succumb to _actual_ unconsciousness, that is. He gets up once to use the loo, not because he has to, but because he feels like a stretch.

May flickers by. Crowley’s _great_ at sleep. He’s managed, over the years, to scare off the worst of his nightmares by yelling at the traumatized corner of his brain like he does his plants — a terrible metaphor, but since Crowley expects it to work, it does for nine times out of ten. Usually his dreams are full of silly nonsense - he likes to dream like a human might, bits and pieces of the day scattered about one’s primary school teacher - and Crowley watches them like the animated cartoons he so enjoys. 

He’s vaguely aware - through some very dreamlike checking of his mobile - when June rolls by. The dreams he’s having start to take a turn which Crowley could pretend is unexpected, but in reality a part of his sleeping brain has been waiting for Aziraphale to show up. There are an embarrassing number of dreams in which Crowley does, in fact, watch Aziraphale eat cake. Twice in his snake-shape. Crowley briefly considers waking up to rid himself of this entirely humiliating situation, but then he remembers Aziraphale’s firm refusal to his offer of company and drifts back down into the comfort of his nap. If this is the only way he can see Aziraphale, then why leave?

The dreams are painted in poignant emotions as June moves forward. Crowley won’t deny that he’s disappointed in Aziraphale’s response; they’d been moving forward, gently, being seen together in public and all, and it had seemed like the reality of _their own side_ had finally been sinking into Aziraphale’s poor fragile reluctant nerves. Crowley understands - he understands losing Heaven all too well, thank you _very_ much - but they’re an angel and a demon, for Hea- someone’s sake. This isn’t even the first plague they’ve lived through.

And so Crowley dreams of scenarios. Aziraphale, coming to the apartment with the aforementioned cake and a bottle of white, gently waking Crowley from his rest, admitting he’d missed Crowley’s company. Or Crowley taking the initiative, sending himself through the telephone lines to spatter out in a spray of sharp angles and black at Aziraphale’s feet.

Sometimes, in-between the dreams, Crowley regrets not doing exactly that: falling back into their old pattern, where all Aziraphale needs to do is quirk an eyebrow and Crowley will give and give and give until he finally hits on what the angel wants. He’d been _infinitesimally_ close to just doing so — he can drive the Bentley unseen, he can come through the phone; he can summon a bus, for hell’s sake. But some small stubborn and petulant part of him had sat up, just then, and Crowley had wanted _so hard_ for Aziraphale to just _ask._

He doesn’t think it’s that much to ask. For Aziraphale to say, out loud, that he would like Crowley’s company. Apparently it was — or Aziraphale just isn’t ready. 

All of this colors Crowley’s dreams in June with deep blues and pale indigo. By the time his phone goes off for July, Crowley’s actually a bit relieved. He needs to wake up for a bit, get his bearings - make sure the angel is alright - and get some different thoughts into his mind if he’s going to head back to bed.

His first exploration of the news is not promising. Over five hundred thousand people have _died._ Crowley has a moment with his face in his palms. He _hates_ Pestilence. Maybe it’s because home office always gave _him_ credit for the number of deaths plagues have caused: worldwide sickness may turn the dying souls more pious as they pass, but the ones left behind lose so much faith that the numbers end up evening out in the end. He just thinks it’s unfair, the things that can happen to human bodies: the Bubonic Plague. Cholera. HIV and AIDS. Human creativity makes its strides - clever humans - but the toll it takes on them is so much. 

He spends a moment considering that, with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse defeated - however temporary - Pestilence might be the only Horseman left. What a horrifying thought. (Other than Death, that is, since Death can neither be killed nor destroyed, and rather than facing up against the Antichrist the Angel Azriel had simply decided to peace out and yeeted himself out of Tadsfield. A good choice, in Crowley’s opinion.)

(Really, looking at the rest of the news, Crowley feels like all of the freaking Horsemen are back on the map. What the _fuck_ is going on in Yemen.)

Crowley eventually pries himself from the bed and shuffles into his kitchen. (No — despite his dreams, Aziraphale is not here, waiting for Crowley to wake up with a cheerful smile and some extravagant cake.) He barks something at the expensive coffee machine he owns and it slams into consciousness, brewing what seems to be five things at once. He collapses onto one of his stylish bar stools to wait while it works.

It seems that - given the context - there’s still some tentatively good news. New cases are absolutely declining in many areas - London included - where the government and the people have worked together to follow proper protocol. Crowley takes a long minute to laugh, horrified, at the Americans; who on earth puts ‘freedom’ (Crowley very actively and sarcastically does the air quotes in the direction of his refrigerator) over a society’s survival? They appear to be _pretending_ the pandemic is over, even in the face of actual data, simply because they’re _bored._ Lord, the USA has been entertaining for the last four years, but this is _ridiculous._

For a moment, Crowley considers whether he has the strength in him to put all of America into a two-month-long nap; that was his response to being bored, wasn’t it? But he isn’t sure he could manage it, and anyway, he’d easily be detected. There’s a reason one of the main entrances to Hell is in Washington, D.C.

It turns out the coffeemaker has made him an espresso, a cup of coffee with cinnamon, and some sort of frothy delight with whipped cream and caramel. Crowley looks at his options, glances around to make _sure_ there’s no one in his apartment, and then grabs the sugary monstrosity. Normally he likes his sugar in small doses, but after that nap, he wants to swallow the whipped cream whole.

Crowley sits at his kitchen island, idly scrolling through the news on his phone, until he has inhaled what might have been a caramel macchiato. He then picks up the espresso - so that he feels better about himself - and meanders off to check his ansaphone. He passes by the plants, which are all looking as stellar as they did the day he miracles them into stasis — he’d taken his feelings about Aziraphale’s denial out on them, and then had felt horrifyingly guilty, to the point where he’d just frozen them all in time to deal with later.

He doesn’t know why he still has the ancient ansaphone. He could easily hook his mobile up to his landline - they’re the same number, really, Crowley isn’t really sure how that works for voicemail except that he expects it to do certain things that then, thus, happen - but there’s something about the physical that he likes. Probably because the only person who leaves him messages is Aziraphale, and he likes the tangible link to it, the way he can press play and have immediate evidence that the angel was thinking of him.

Or so he thought. Crowley looks down to see 17 messages waiting for him.

Oh, _hells._ Heavens. Whatever. Telemarketers have probably been going through the _roof_ during lockdown, with businesses unable to press sales in person. Crowley immediately downs the espresso and heads back into the kitchen, where - with a snap of his fingers - the mug of coffee has a bit of vanilla creamer added on top of the cinnamon. He then collapses into the throne, one leg immediately tucking itself over the armrest - what, he just woke up, let him be comfortable - and presses play.

The voice is, stingingly, sharply, _fondly_ familiar, and after so many dreams Crowley’s unused heart wrenches itself inside his chest.

_Hello, Crowley. It’s me! It’s been perhaps - hm - a week since we last talked, and I assume you’re happily asleep. I do know how much you like these long naps, and to be perfectly frank with you, I feel like you deserve one. We both rested after the Armageddon incident, yes, but you went through so much … and did so much … ahem._

_Anyway. I was quite expecting you to nap after the entire - episode - but you didn’t, and I shouldn’t be so surprised you’re doing so now. I suppose neither one of us wanted to be apart for long after everything that - happened - but - oh, dear._

_Yes. I just wanted to check in, make sure you were sleeping and everything was alright. I’m doing quite swimmingly here, no need to worry on my account. Sleep well, Crowley._

The mood of it - the tone of it - does something messy to Crowley’s insides. He figures the angel was just making sure he was asleep — Aziraphale was prone to some _very_ petulant sulking when he felt that Crowley had been ignoring him. (See for reference: the entire Bastille incident, which had been brought on by a very tricky assignment in Malaysia that Crowley hadn’t really been able to get away from.)

He presses the button for the next message, then deletes it when it turns out to be a long beeping tone, like someone had attempted a fax. Ha. It’s 2020. Who still has a fax machine?

Next message.

_Hello, Crowley. It’s me! Just, you know. Happened to be thinking about you today, and I figured I’d try a call, in case you happened to get peckish and wake up, or something._

_You’ll be happy to know that I have, finally, perfected a macaron procedure. It’s quite difficult, you see, although I think that might be because I’m so picky… Do you remember those ones we had in Besançon? So very obviously handmade, and you bought three of the raspberry ones because you somehow knew they’d be my favorite. And the coconut! You should know, my dear, that while I do have a general love for all macarons - as an angel of the Lord - none of them have ever been quite so decadent as that box we ate together, sitting on the ledge of the town fountain._

_Sorry, I’ve gotten carried away._

_I guess I just wanted to say I was … thinking of you, today. That is all. Once you’re awake, I’m going to have to figure out a way to deliver macarons to your door so that we can eat them together. Maybe over the phone. We’ll see._

_Sleep well, Crowley._

This one hits hard. Crowley remembers that afternoon in Besançon: it had been autumn, and the angel had been impeccable in a beige tweed, flecks of blue and green sparking his kaleidoscope eyes. Crowley had shivered in his thin black coat as they ate the macarons, and pretended that he was cold. 

_Hello, Crowley. It’s me._

_I guess I shouldn’t be that surprised that you’re attempting to sleep through this nonsense. I know you’ve never liked plagues, and this one can’t be any different. If you were awake to see the absolutely imbecilic decisions some of the governments are making — oh. It’s quite a horrible time to be reading the news, my dear. I’m nearly glad you’re asleep, except that I would love to hear your witty commentary on all of this._

_I’ve done a miracle that I hope will get rid of the murder hornets, so if you awaken to no news about them, please be sure to ask me. That alone will have you laughing for an hour._

_It’s so odd that we risked everything to save this world - what, nine? ten? months ago - and here we are, watching as the humans face their own sort of… I guess calling it Armageddon is a bit dramatic, on my part. Do forgive me. I’ve been reading the Henries again, and you know that gets me all kinds of overwrought._

_Still. It has become very odd for me to sit here and watch the state of the world we wanted so badly to save without - well - without you by my side. Please don’t think I begrudge you your naps; I know you’ve well earned them and deserve them, and probably enjoy them as well. It’s just that I … I mean … ahem._

_I feel like I’ve gotten rather used to looking to my left and having you be there, my dear boy. I know this situation isn’t anything we can fight with our personal powers, and yet I find myself wanting to know what you might suggest, during these terrible times._

_[pause]_

_Anyway! I hope your nap is going splendidly, and that you’re having lovely dreams about whatever you like best. I shall be here when you wake up. Sleep well, Crowley._

Crowley has to pause the answering machine for a moment. This particular message has - well - ngh - there’s something in Aziraphale’s voice, in this one, that reminds Crowley of all the times he’s snuck a glance behind his sunglasses over towards Aziraphale only to see the kind of look on the angel’s face that he’s been desperately imagining for six thousand years. He might be imagining things. He probably is.

The next two messages are in fact telemarketers - Crowley takes a distinct pleasure in sending miracles down the line to fry both company’s phone systems - but then there’s that familiar voice again, with an added edge that makes Crowley sit up.

_Hello, Crowley. It’s me._

_[pause]_

_I’m terribly sorry, dear chap. Today has been rather… harsh._

_I admit I thought of waking you. But I wouldn’t do that — I know how well you value your privacy, and your independence from everything related to both Heaven and Hell. Thus, another of these confounded voice messages will have to suffice._

_Remember the lovely Korean place down the street, with those delightful meatballs? Well. It seems. Ahem. Sorry, hold on, one moment._

_[sounds in the background]_

_Right. Well. The matriarch - the grandmother of the owner - has passed away due to complications from the virus. I called them for my usual order of soup and dumplings and bibimbop and they —- well._

_I’ve realized today the cost of my hesitance. Imagine we were human, and I’d denied you this same way, and you’d — well. We are lucky we don’t have to think of it. We are lucky that we are an angel and a demon, that we are somewhat separate from all of these human calamities. I won’t deny, though, that the thought of it had me—_

_Terribly sorry. Won’t happen again. Sleep well, Crowley._

Crowley nearly stops the tape at that point. His mobile is in his hand, ready to dial Aziraphale. The _need_ in the angel’s voice - the stark hurt - is the kind of thing Crowley has spent _millenia_ trying to eliminate. Ridiculous, that it should arrive when he’s sulkingly asleep. This is Her fault, he’s absolutely sure of it.

Next message.

_Hello, Crowley. It’s me! I’m terribly sorry if my last message worried you at all — although from the lack of response I must conclude that you’re still asleep. I’m perfectly fine. We’ve both lost humans we care about, over the millenia, and once I got over the initial sting of it all, I’ve been managing it the same way I always have. I’ve blessed the family, such that their restaurant might be successful for decades. I feel like it’s a bit of a selfish miracle, but it still went through, so I’m not quite out of the game just yet!_

_I’ll admit, though, that I’ve been a bit curious about you these days. You see, we’re well into June, and you’d originally said that you’d set your alarm clock to this time period, and I find I’m ...quite occupied thinking about when you’ll awake. But you ended the call talking about July, so I am likely just being an old silly, but there’s a part of me that’s ...well._

_You know I don’t get lonely often. Humans create so many lovely things — I could dedicate every moment of my eternal life to reading and never keep up with the number of words they produce! And that’s just the written word; there are so many human wonders to take in, especially these days. So many wonders I’ve ignored. Do you know of this thing called Vine?_

_Anyway. Sleep well, my dear, darling Crowley. July is only a week or two away, and I look forward to hearing your voice._

Crowley chokes on his fucking chicory coffee and just barely manages to keep it all down — his snakelike ability to avoid any sort of gag reflex has never come in more handy. (He is _not_ thinking about that, no, not at _all._ )

He’s deleted a number of false dials and other telemarketing scams to the point where he has two messages left. He finds himself simultaneously hoping that they’re both Aziraphale, and hoping that they’re just garbage, something he can remove and move on, the kind of thing that won’t cause his heart to need a reinstallation into his chest. 

The thing is.The thing is: Crowley has loved Aziraphale - wanted Aziraphale, in all of the ways that weren’t on offer - for so many millennia that it’s become his own background noise. It’s the filter though which he has looked at this world - this existence - _everything_ \- for so long he’s forgotten how to do it without that background noise. And hearing these messages have his stupid useless heart pounding, his stupid palms sweating, because all of the words Aziraphale has left here on this archaic tape are words Crowley has only heard in this order in his most private and special of dreams.

Dreading it - hoping for it - absolutely a wreck, Crowley presses play.

_Hello, Crowley. It’s me._

_I’ve been thinking a lot, during this lockdown. In some ways, what else do I have to do? Ha. In crises like these it seems that humanity often turns to the philosophical — although these days, they seem to be turning to the absurd and the absolutely, utterly idiotic worst. Have you heard about the Americans?_

_Well. Beyond that. I’ve been thinking, for some time, about the fact that you aren’t here._

_The last time I spoke to you seems to have taken up permanent residence in my head. I am not sure whether this is because I miss you so dreadfully - oh, don’t make that face - or because it has finally struck me, like a bell, that our situation here on Earth is so entirely, consumingly, ineffably different than it ever has been before._

Crowley pauses the tape.

The tone in the angel’s voice is - he can’t - Crowley ends up hissing desperately into his coffee, taking its cinnamon-vanilla goodness and turning it into another tall whipped-cream monstrosity with the lightest of fingersnaps. 

He’s been waiting, desperately, for so long that now that he - he thinks - he’s actually hearing it, it makes perfect fucking sense that Aziraphale would take a step forward at a time Crowley was still embossed in sleep, a sharp long-limbed character beneath dark sheets.

He doesn’t want to hear the rest of it. Is so scared that this moment has passed by and what he’s going to hear is a temporary lapse of Aziraphale’s judgment - probably scotch-related, the angel likes a good scotch - that will be entirely redacted by the end of these messages.

But Crowley has always valued knowledge over everything - all knowledge is worth having - and maybe his hands are shaking as he presses play again, but whatever, he can blame it on the caffeine.

_I’m afraid I might have given you the wrong idea. I was hoping, you see, that you’d take my earlier comments into account, and use all of the demonic wiles at your disposal to, well. You know. Slither down and… exactly._

_And yet even in saying that I realize I’ve gone wrong. What I should have done from the start is asked you to come over. Clearly. Concisely. Because I’ve been missing you, Crowley, and I feel like we shall have a good deal to talk about once you’re up from that infernal nap and back here in the bookshop where you — oh._

_[pause]_

_I almost said, where you belong._

Crowley swallows. Hard.

_Crowley, I’ve no wish to do this on your helldamned answering machine, and I’ve absolutely no desire to have this conversation without being able to look you in the eye - you know I adore your eyes, right, I feel like I have to have said that at least once - and I have no intention of saying any of the things on the tip of my well-read tongue to a machine that once had a Duke of Hell caught in its workings. Heavens. What might you think of me?_

_But I find that I have a great many things to say to. Well. You. And I’m hoping some of them are things you’re more than willing to hear — things you’ve been eager to hear, perhaps, for a long time, and oh, Crowley, you may not know how hard I’ve been listening, but — I’ve been listening. I hear you. I’ve always heard you, even throughout the many dry years I’ve denied it. I’m thrice Peter, absolving myself of anything the second the sunlight hits it, but I want to believe I’m brave enough now._

_When you wake up, please slither down, in whatever fashion suits you best. The situation has changed, but more importantly, so has my heart. I shall make you the devil’s-food cake you liked so well back in the 60s, the one with red wine in the recipe and that delectable cheesecake and mascarpone icing, and we will. Well._

_We’ll talk, I hope. And perhaps afterwards we’ll do something entirely new._

_It’s near July, and I hope to hear from you soon. Sleep well, my love._

Crowley’s entire being becomes stuck in his throat. Every single nerve of his is scrambling to get out, to expose itself to the sharp slice of oxygen, to the harsh inert nitrogen, to the reality of a world that is supposed to cut so much more sharply because Crowley is a demon, he’s unforgiven, he is the original Serpent of Eden and he was never, ever meant for something this broad and bright and beautiful.

The last message is a call center trying to sell him a warranty for the Bentley. It’s possibly the most hysterically, desperately funny thing that has ever happened to Crowley in his life. 

He trips his way back into his bedroom. Calls up something that’s similar to what has been his traditional outfit for the past fifteen years, and then — thinks about it. Tartan on a collar is far too twee, but Crowley thinks he might be able to manage having a soft warm cream there, rather than his usual red. He retains the dip of his henley - he’s the original tempter, after all - but takes a second to weave gold and white into the chain-scarf necklace he’s worn so diligently. It’ll set off the collar and his cuffs, Crowley thinks, which will make his now-longer hair pop in the sunlight. Vanity is, in fact, a great sin to indulge.

He finishes by - a bit embarrassed by the miracle, really, hoping that Beelzebub isn’t still tracking his receipts - adjusting his belt buckle to contain swirling traces of silver and rose gold that bleed through the design he’s chosen: two wings, creating a mirrored circle like the ouroboros, except that instead of devouring themselves they’re creating life, a fire all their own.

Crowley snatches up the keys to the Bentley, excited in a way he hasn’t been in - well - who knows, really. As he stumbles down the stairs towards his car, his clumsy fingers finally manage to dial a number on his mobile that he’s been subconsciously thinking about dialing for weeks, now.

It rings out while Crowley gets himself situated, and then right as he peels away from his apartment’s parking, there’s a somewhat breathless _Hello_ that comes over the line?

“Hell-lo, angel,” Crowley drawls, making sure every single ounce of his happiness and affection soaks through the fourteen syllables he adds to the word. “I’m on my way down. Need anything?”

There’s a sharp breath, and then a pause, and then Aziraphale’s fond and welcome voice over the line. “Nothing at all, my dear. Only you.”


End file.
